??? ????? ??? ????? ?? ???? ? A Collection of One-shots

a/n:  in this one-shot, Y/N is married to Bond but not part of MI6

Now Playing: Need 2 by: Pinegrove

Pain had a way of distorting time. (Y/N) could still feel the bullet's impact—a searing, merciless fire burning through her shoulder, carving a path of agony that had left her dizzy, breathless. The wound throbbed with every heartbeat, a cruel reminder of how close she had come to something worse.

And it was all because of James.

Not that she blamed him. Not really. But his life had bled into hers tonight, in the worst way imaginable.

Bond's grip around her was ironclad as he half-carried, half-dragged her through the underground halls of MI6, his steps quick and purposeful. He wasn't running, but (Y/N) knew he wanted to. She could feel the tension in his body, the coiled energy beneath the surface.

Her legs felt unsteady, her vision hazy. She must have lost more blood than she thought.

"We're almost there," Bond murmured.

She barely had the strength to nod.

A sterile, brightly lit room came into view, filled with medical equipment she didn't want to look at too closely. The air smelled of antiseptic, sharp and clinical. A doctor was already waiting—a woman with short, no-nonsense hair and a crisp MI6-issued uniform. She barely acknowledged Bond's presence, already focused on (Y/N)'s injury.

"She needs to sit up," the doctor instructed, her voice calm but firm. "The bullet is lodged near the scapula. Easier to extract from this position."

(Y/N) felt Bond's arm tighten around her as he helped her onto the examination table. Her body protested, a fresh wave of pain ripping through her shoulder. She gasped, sucking in a breath as she tried to steady herself.

Bond crouched in front of her, his hands bracketing her knees, steadying her. "I've got you," he said, voice low.

The doctor moved behind her, already prepping the instruments. (Y/N) clenched her jaw, bracing herself.

"This is going to hurt," the doctor warned.

No kidding.

Bond must have sensed the spike of tension in her body because his hand slid over hers, fingers threading through her own. It was an unspoken reassurance, a silent promise.

Then the scalpel touched her skin.

The pain was instant, sharp and deep. She stiffened, a muffled whimper escaping her lips as the doctor worked quickly to remove the bullet.

"Easy," Bond murmured, shifting closer. He reached up, his hand tilting her chin so that her eyes met his. "Look at me."

She did. Because looking anywhere else meant acknowledging the agony behind her, the relentless, precise movements of the doctor.

Bond's forehead pressed gently against hers.

His breath was warm against her lips, his presence grounding.

"Breathe," he whispered. "In, out. Just like that."

She tried. She really did. But then the doctor adjusted her grip, and a new jolt of pain tore through her shoulder. Her fingers clamped around Bond's, nails digging into his palm.

He didn't flinch. Didn't pull away. If anything, he held on tighter.

"You're doing good," he murmured, his voice the only steady thing in the room. "Almost there."

(Y/N) exhaled shakily, forehead still pressed to his. His scent—faint traces of gunpowder, leather, and something distinctly him—wrapped around her like a safety net.

Then, finally—finally—the doctor spoke.

"Got it."

A sharp, aching relief flooded through her as the bullet was lifted away. Blood trickled down her back as the doctor quickly worked to clean the wound, but the worst was over.

(Y/N) sagged against Bond, exhaustion pulling at her limbs. He caught her easily, supporting her weight without hesitation.

She felt his lips brush her temple. "It's over," he murmured.

Her eyes fluttered closed. "I hate your job."

A low, humorless chuckle. "So do I."

The doctor gave Bond a pointed look. "She needs rest. And painkillers."

He nodded once, then turned his attention back to (Y/N). "Let's get you home."

She didn't argue. Because home meant him. And right now, that was the only thing keeping her upright.